Interruptions
by Stormcrown201
Summary: The Anchor chooses to flare up at the worst of times.


**Author's Note:** Enjoy! This is my first time trying to write explicit sexual content, so I apologise if it's not any good. I'd appreciate it if you left comments advising me on where I could improve or telling me what you liked!

* * *

"Lift your legs, _amatus_," Dorian murmurs into Leas' ear. His lips and tongue brush the inside as he speaks.

Leas shivers and giggles and shifts underneath him. "You've only to ask," he says. His eyes are lidded and sparkling, glinting in the dark, as he lifts his legs up and gently places them over Dorian's shoulders, aided by Dorian's hand. As he moves them, he pulls his foot across Dorian's upper arm in a smooth, slinking stroke. Dorian feels a shiver of his own.

Then he shuffles back, readjusting his position, ignoring the throbbing in his groin and the protest in his clouded mind to take the man _now_. No good taking him if he can't do it comfortably. Once he's satisfied, he wraps an arm around Leas' back and pulls him into his chest. At the same time, he takes himself in his other hand and guides himself to Leas' entrance.

It's something he's done a thousand times before, but he's far from tiring of it. As soon as Dorian presses against him, Leas gasps and lets out another giggle, and he squirms the way he always does—more of a wriggler than any other man he's had, not that he minds. He looks up briefly to lay a kiss to Leas' already bruised lips and to his jaw and to suck on the spot where his neck meets his shoulder. Then he presses inside, gently, slowly. They're in no hurry, not tonight.

It never takes much to get Leas to make some noise and some movements, and the moment Dorian settles inside him, the man lets out a moan and rakes his fingers down his back and sides. They're warm with magic, and the spark of lightning goes up Dorian's spine, straight into his head. He jerks and gasps, then buries his face in Leas' shoulder again and presses forward. "You enjoy doing that, don't you?" he murmurs.

"No other man I've had has ever appreciated the… finer uses of magic," Leas says, his voice breathy and weak as Dorian pulls back before pressing in again. "I—ahhh—I'm just making up for—for years of dormancy. Uhh…"

Dorian laughs, and the movement wracks both their bodies. "_Dormancy._ Fine word for the present moment, Leas."

"Oh, be quiet, you know what I meant. And keep _moving_."

Dorian obliges him, his thrusts slow and steady even as much as he wants to go harder, faster, to experience another kind of spark. He pulls back to grin down at Leas. "Demanding tonight, aren't you?" he teases, with another, sloppier kiss.

"… Keep moving, _please_."

He laughs again, harder and louder, and throws himself into the task, not changing so quickly that it'll discomfit Leas but building up the pace ever gradually. Leas' hands continue to claw at his back, up and down from his shoulder blades to just above his rear. Here and there he moans and shifts and giggles as he always does. At some point, as Dorian is taking the rhythm up another notch, he tangles a hand in his hair and pulls him back to bury his face in his neck again. Dorian happily obliges him, lavishing attention on the smooth, pale skin. A small scar mars his lower neck, but he avoids it—Leas cares little for his scars, not enough to want them touched.

In the meantime, the spark in Leas' fingers grows warmer and stronger, especially in his left hand. Sparks fly freely up and down Dorian's spine now, to his head and to his groin. Each one brings some noise out of him—a curse, a gasp, a moan. He keeps one arm securely locked around Leas' back and moves his other hand to hold Leas' leg in place as he thrusts deeper into him, and he plants messy kisses and sucks at the skin below his neck, down to his nipples. Every touch brings a noise out of Leas, too, and more sparks.

Rather more sparks than he was expecting, and uncomfortably _sharp_ sparks to boot, but he ignores this in the gathering pleasure that crowds all else out of his head. "Beautiful man," he murmurs in Tevene, before dragging his teeth over Leas' skin again. "_Glorious._ So—" He thrusts forward and loses all coherency at the same moment, his last word turning into a sigh. Leas gasps and cries out, and there seems a slight sharpness in it, a hitch indicating pain, but he again pays it no heed.

The sparks keep coming as they move together, Leas' back arching off the bed, leaving no room for even air between them. They are many now and definitely uncomfortable, even painful, seeming uncontrolled. But he can feel himself teetering on the precipice, the best sort of oblivion beckoning him forward, and he hasn't the room to care. Harder, faster again—a few more, maybe, and it'll be over—

Leas cries out.

"Aaah! Ah! Dorian! _Dorian! Stop!_"

The words are like a bucket of ice water over the head. Dorian's head snaps up, and he goes still at once, his eyes focusing on Leas. In the dark, he can see him writhing in the bed, but not with pleasure now. His face is twisted with pain and has gone absolutely white. Another cry tears itself from his throat, one of mingled lust and agony. "Leas—?"

At that moment, he feels it—a whole _series_ of angry sparks on his back, coming at an incredible pace and cutting into him like knives. "_Fasta vass!_"

"Dorian! Out! Get—I _need room!_ Out!"

He doesn't need telling twice. At once, Dorian drops Leas' legs and slides out. He almost summons a small ball of light, but a flash of green attracts his attention, and he looks to the side to see Leas' marked hand flailing in the air. The Anchor is flaring, flashing in the dark, furious, vivid green sparks flying out in every direction, and Leas' veins—all the way down to his elbow—glow with it. Beneath him, Leas screams and convulses, shifting over onto his side, squirming ineffectually.

"_Kaffas…_" he breathes. For half a moment, all he can do is stare, his mind still too clouded for him to do anything else. Then reality sinks in, and he sits up. "Leas, is there anything—?"

Leas lets out another cry, one that sounds close to a sob, and his heart clenches at the sound. "_Emathe em!_" he gasps. "_Emathe em! Sathan!_"

"I don't speak elven, Leas!" Dorian snaps, then he swallows, regretting at once his hastiness. He lays a hand on Leas' arm, gently. "_Amatus_—"

"Hold me!" Leas grits out as he convulses. "Please!"

At once, Dorian shifts so that his back is resting against the headboard, and he pulls Leas into his arms, holding the man against his chest. Once he has settled himself, he reaches out and gently grasps Leas' flailing arm by the elbow. Though the sparking and burning even here are like knives flaying his skin, he holds on tight and tries to keep it steady. He rests his head on Leas' shoulder while the man cries out and gasps and, sometimes, screams. Every sound is agony and lust combined, a strange perversion horrible to hear, and all he can do is _wait_. He knows from experience that all of his magic is useless against this.

_Venhedis, Solas, if only you had left some notes on this bloody thing,_ he curses to himself. _We could have done with those._ But Solas is several months gone, and so Dorian holds Leas tight, strokes his skin, and presses kisses into his flesh that he only hopes are not lost to Leas in the searing pain of the Anchor.

The minutes drag on as though they were hours, and Dorian entirely forgets the throbbing and protesting in his groin in the spectacle of green sparks and glowing veins and Leas' convulsions and anguished yells. Finally, however, all come to their climax, and rarely has that phrase been more appropriate. The Anchor flares up larger than Leas' _hand_, a shade of green so bright as to be blinding, and sparks erupt in something akin to an explosion. Leas' back arches while Dorian clings onto him like a barnacle and swears incoherently. Then, rather than scream or cry, he lets out a long, low, and horrifically familiar _moan_. For some moments more, his thrashing and spasming continue, but then at last, the glow of the Anchor fades, and the sparks stop. Leas collapses back into Dorian's arms, panting and whimpering.

A long silence persists afterwards, one in which Dorian hardly dares to move, never mind speak. At length, however, Leas groans and wipes his forehead with his unmarked hand, and he leans back and rests his head on Dorian's shoulder. "_Amatus?_" he whispers.

A grimace crosses Leas' face, which is now flushed deep red instead of deathly white. "Creators. That… was…" His eyes fly open. "Oh, _shit._"

"Leas?!"

Somehow, Leas' flush only deepens, enough so that his face now looks almost the same colour as his hair. He smacks his hand to his forehead, pinches the bridge of his nose, and looks down. Although he suspects this is something he doesn't want to see, Dorian follows his gaze, down past his chest to his belly.

There, in the dark, he is just able to make out the long streaks of white that have liberally splattered it.

_Ah._ The silence becomes somewhat awkward.

Leas seems to notice him looking. He groans again and looks away, now hiding his face in his hand. "I don't believe it," he mutters. "I _came_ from that thing. I was in so much pain I didn't even realise… Oh, Creators. Dorian, I'm so, _so_ sorry—"

"It's hardly your fault, _amatus_," Dorian says at once, stroking Leas' chest and arm soothingly. A wry remark about whether he should be worried about Leas finishing to the Anchor instead of him rises in his throat, but for once, he's able to swallow it. "Dare I say it, these things happen."

"Not during _sex_, they don't, or they shouldn't," Leas says, with another groan. "_Fenedhis!_ That was awful." Dorian holds him tighter, squeezes him even, and Leas seem to relax into his touch. "What about you, are you—?"

They glance down, and Leas chuckles apologetically at the sight of Dorian's cock, now at half-mast. "Surprisingly, you screaming in pain and convulsing like you were having a seizure wasn't the most attractive thing I've ever seen," Dorian says dryly.

Leas shifts around to look at him and lifts his unmarked hand to stroke his cheek. "I don't think I can continue tonight, _arasha_," he murmurs, eyes wide and glimmering with guilt. "But I could use my hand—finish things off for you? I feel like I should do _something_… Would you…?"

Dorian shakes his head. "There's no need."

Leas hesitates. "But I should do something. This kind of spoiled things for you—"

"And for you," Dorian reminds him gently, stroking his chin. "I don't require _compensation_, Leas. We can finish this another night." When he sees that Leas is still uncertain, he leans in and kisses him softly. "There's nothing you owe me," he murmurs. "Don't blame yourself. And don't worry about me—are _you_ all right?"

A brief pause in which Leas buries his face in his shoulder again. Dorian cradles him and kisses his hair. "I will be," he says eventually. "I was just… not expecting… Creators and the Maker, what _horrid_ timing. And I _came_! Ugh!"

"I'm sure you don't need me to remind you that that's hardly a surprise," Dorian says, and Leas lets out another weak laugh, shaking his head. An idea pops into his mind, then. "How about this, _amatus_? I draw us up a cold bath, and I tell you the story of a classmate of mine at the Minrathous Circle who walked into a practice duel _at attention_ and came in front of the entire class and a few visiting magisters after a particularly inventive use of a certain Spirit spell…"

As he'd intended, Leas lets out a shocked laugh, much stronger and more genuine than before, and looks up at him. "_Really?_"

Dorian grins at him, recalling the memory. "Oh, yes. And the audience was mostly _teenagers_, I might add. Most of us nearly died laughing. Poor man—Julian, I think his name was. Luckily, he was rather a good sport about it."

Leas continues to chuckle, shaking his head in apparent disbelief. His face slowly returns to its normal colour, and the echoes of pain and embarrassment leave his eyes. "All right, you've got my attention. I suppose that is marginally more humiliating than coming from this thing. Well, lead on."

_Ah, it's always so easy to lift his mood. Good man,_ he thinks, fondness lacing the words. He offers Leas another smile and kisses him again, then untangles himself from him and stands up. Leas follows shortly after, his legs still trembling a little, though he is otherwise back to normal. They head into the adjoining bathroom, and before long, Dorian has drawn up and warmed the bath, and they're both laughing aloud as they wash up and Dorian tells the story. By the time they have finished, their own incident is almost forgotten.

But in the weeks and months to come, as the Anchor starts flaring up more and more and causes Leas worse and still worse pain on every occasion, Dorian's mind will return to tonight often, most especially the helplessness with which he will rapidly become very well-acquainted. Soon enough, it will become clear enough that what happened here was only a sign of things to come, and that some doom hangs over Leas and his Anchor—unknown but unavoidable. And all he'll be able to do—all any of them will be able to do—is wait, and dread, and hope beyond hope. For what, he doesn't know.


End file.
